


Desperate Times

by TrueIllusion



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Caretaking, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Food Poisoning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Life, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Sickfic, Snuggly Ending, but not graphic, in sickness and in health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: It started in the middle of the night, with a soft whine that roused Patrick from sleep.But Patrick was a light sleeper and David was a talker who was also prone to nightmares, so that was nothing unusual. Patrick was used to providing comfort in the wee hours of the morning, be it because of a bad dream or an anxiety attack, or anything in between.“Hey,” Patrick said softly as he flicked on the bedside lamp and rolled over to face his husband, his hand already gravitating toward David’s arm. “You okay?”Normally, David’s response would be to give a short, quick nod, despite the tightly closed eyes and occasional tears that always belied his answer. This time, however, there was no nod -- only another pained groan as David squeezed his eyes shut and curled even further in on himself.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 23
Kudos: 178





	Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> It is what it says on the tin, but it's not graphic, and I tried my best to not make it gross, while still showing the reality of the situation. Although "gross" and "graphic" are both subjective, so hopefully I pulled that off.

It started in the middle of the night, with a soft whine that roused Patrick from sleep.

But Patrick was a light sleeper and David was a talker who was also prone to nightmares, so that was nothing unusual. Patrick was used to providing comfort in the wee hours of the morning, be it because of a bad dream or an anxiety attack, or anything in between.

“Hey,” Patrick said softly as he flicked on the bedside lamp and rolled over to face his husband, his hand already gravitating toward David’s arm. “You okay?”

Normally, David’s response would be to give a short, quick nod, despite the tightly closed eyes and occasional tears that always belied his answer. This time, however, there was no nod -- only another pained groan as David squeezed his eyes shut and curled even further in on himself.

“Talk to me,” Patrick whispered, trying his best to sound calm despite his growing concern as he ran a hand gently over David’s bicep. “What’s going on?”

When David answered, his own voice was barely even a whisper. “Stomach hurts.”

That wasn’t particularly unusual either, given that it was a common symptom of David’s anxiety, especially if there was something he was trying to _not_ seem anxious about. But Patrick wasn’t sure what that something could have been, and before he could devote much thought to figuring it out, David’s eyes flew open and he slapped a hand over his mouth before stumbling out of bed and into their ensuite bathroom.

David barely made it to the toilet before he was retching and gagging, his slumped-over form just visible around the edge of the partly closed door as he knelt on the rug.

Ten seconds later, Patrick was out of bed and kneeling alongside him, his hand tracing light circles on David’s back until the worst of the sickness seemed to have passed, leaving David hunched over the toilet, trying to catch his breath.

“Fucking kids,” he muttered, once he’d recovered enough to be able to speak, though he still hadn’t lifted his head, which was hovering dangerously close to the toilet seat. “Nothing but germ farms. Who brings their kid to a small business association meeting anyway?”

“A single mother whose babysitter cancelled,” Patrick supplied, recalling how apologetic Aarti had been about the fact that her daughter was tagging along to the Elm County Small Business Association’s quarterly meeting and potluck dinner.

“Well, maybe the babysitter had the plague and she gave it to the kid.”

“Meera wasn’t sick, though. And I really don’t think Aarti would have brought her if--”

“How do you know she wasn’t a carrier?” David cut Patrick off, his voice rising as he turned his head to give him a disbelieving look. “Maybe she was just... spewing her germs all over everyone like some sort of… virus ninja, or something.”

Patrick fought to hold back a chuckle at the sight and sound of David somehow still managing to be incensed and overly dramatic, even in his current state. “Okay, David. It’s probably just a stomach bug.”

“That I got at that potluck!”

“You don’t know that. You could have gotten it anywhere… at the cafe, at Brebner’s, maybe that coffee shop you spend way too much time at every time you go to Elmdale.”

“Okay, what do you think I’m _doing_ at the coffee shop? Licking the tables?”

“I guess it could be food poisoning, but I’m pretty sure we ate most of the same things last night, and I feel fine. What else did you eat yesterday?”

David shifted to lean back against the glass wall of the shower and let out a sigh, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. “Um, a bagel? Yogurt. One of those frozen soft pretzels you bought me at Costco. Gummy bears. Half a pepperoni pizza. Some leftover pasta and garlic bread…”

“Just yesterday, David. Not the whole week.”

David opened his eyes and sat up a little, glaring at Patrick. “Yes, yesterday. Anyway, I think that was it except for the stuff at the potluck. I bet it was those fucking finger sandwiches Ray made.”

“I ate those too, and I’m fine. What else did you eat? Anything I didn’t?”

“Um, those little barbecue meatballs, I think? And two slices of that fucking delicious German chocolate cake that Karen brought.” A contented little moan escaped David’s lips at the mention of the cake, which was ironic given the fact that he was currently sitting in front of their toilet, having just expelled the entire contents of his stomach.

“Wait, didn’t you tell me there wasn’t any more of that cake after you finished your first slice, and you went back to get me some? Did you eat my slice of cake, David?”

“So, um, there _might_ have been a piece with just one tiny little bite out of it, sitting on top of the trash can…” David squinted one eye as the side of his mouth tilted upward into a sheepish expression. “And I knew you wouldn’t want it, so…”

“So you ate cake… out of the trash can.”

David sighed as he leaned his head back onto the shower door and closed his eyes, saying nothing.

“See, I knew that would catch up with you one day. Do you even know whose cake that was? Or what else was in that trash can?”

“I bet it was that stupid kid,” David grumbled.

“Stop blaming Meera. You did this to yourself.”

“Okay, so that seems harsh, especially given my current condition.”

David had a point; it was hard to be mad at him when he looked so miserable, no matter how frustrating it was to know David’s most disgusting habit had now made him sick, which meant they both had to suffer.

Patrick let out a sigh of his own and hauled himself back to his feet. “Alright, let’s get you back in bed, and I’ll go downstairs and get you some water.”

David nodded, swallowing hard as Patrick helped him up, then led him back to their bed. Patrick retrieved the water, as promised, before climbing into bed beside his husband, who was lying on his side in the fetal position, his brow furrowed and slick with sweat. Somehow he looked even sicker than he had just a couple of minutes before, though Patrick hoped that was just his imagination.

Gently, he pressed the back of his hand to David’s far-rosier-than-usual cheek. The skin there was warmer than normal, just as he suspected, and David let out a pitiful-sounding whine as Patrick drew his hand away. With as sick as David seemed to be, Patrick figured there was no way that what had just occurred would be an isolated incident; he just hoped that they could both manage to get at least a little sleep before the next round hit.

As anticipated, it wasn’t much later when the sound and sensation of David scrambling out of bed awakened Patrick again, just in time to see him kick the bathroom door shut. Patrick tried not to listen too closely, because he knew David would be very upset at the indignity of it all, but it was hard -- especially when it became apparent that David’s illness had now adopted multiple exit strategies.

Unsure of how exactly to offer help when he knew there was nothing he could do, Patrick stayed close outside the door until the only sounds coming from the bathroom were David’s occasional groans.

“David?” Patrick asked cautiously, still not quite sure how to handle this particular situation, given that this was easily the sickest either of them had been at any point during their relationship. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

David’s only response was a pained whimper, followed by what sounded like dry heaving.

Patrick’s hand hovered in front of the doorknob. “Should I come in?”

The soft clunk of the lock engaging gave Patrick his answer even before David managed to utter, “Please don’t.”

“David, I promise I won’t come in if you don’t want me to. Just… please, unlock the door. Just in case.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Patrick sighed as he lowered his hand to his side. He wanted to respect David’s privacy, but he also didn’t like having his obviously-quite-ill husband on the other side of a locked door. He heard David groan again, although there weren’t any other sounds that followed this time, which seemed like a good thing. Patrick’s brain was already working -- trying to remember where they’d stashed all of the random interior door keys that had come with the house -- when a sudden cramp took hold in his abdomen, beginning at his navel and rippling downward in a way that told Patrick that he had an extremely short amount of time to make it down the hall to the guest bathroom before something very, very bad happened.

***

David wasn’t sure he’d ever been more miserable in his life, and that included the time he’d combined several varieties of illicit drugs with a dozen shots at a party, and the resulting hangover had made him wish someone would just kill him and get it over with already. His whole body was sticky with sweat, his head was pounding, and every muscle and organ in his torso felt like it was currently in the grip of one giant cramp.

He knew he probably shouldn’t have locked Patrick out, but his self-preservation instincts had kicked in -- along with bad memories of past partners leaving the moment David’s facade slipped, revealing the mess underneath. The sensible part of him knew Patrick wasn’t like that -- after all, he’d hardly even batted an eyelash when David _peed_ in his _bed_ \-- but David still preferred to wait as long as he possibly could before allowing his husband to actually witness his body expelling things. Or see him on the toilet. _Incorrect_.

Exhaustion was quickly setting in, leaving David hardly able to hold his head up as he sat waiting to see if the show was over, or if there would be an additional encore. Not that there could possibly be anything left to expel.

David let his eyes close as he leaned his cheek against the cool glass wall of the shower. Sleeping on the toilet was _very_ much incorrect, but he was just so, so tired…

Forcing his eyes open, David shook his head. He was _not_ falling asleep in the bathroom, half naked with his pants around his ankles. Nope. Not happening. He just had to find the energy to get up.

Slowly and carefully, he pushed himself up to stand, steadying himself with one hand on the shower door as he tried to find his balance. The bathroom seemed to spin around him for several seconds, momentarily bringing back the overwhelming nausea that had driven him out of bed in the first place. Finally, it stopped for long enough to allow David to tug his sleep joggers back up -- a normally simple action that somehow felt like running a marathon in his current state.

He knew he needed to wash his face and brush his teeth, but the miniscule amount of time he’d been standing had already robbed him of all of his energy, leaving him dangerously close to collapsing right there on the bathroom floor, which… no. That wasn’t happening either.

With shaking hands, David unlocked the door and turned the knob, fully expecting to see his husband on the other side, holding a fresh glass of water and whatever else he thought might help exorcise this demon from David’s body. But the bedroom was empty. He was probably off looking for keys, then… or something. David didn’t know, and quite frankly, he didn’t have the energy to try to figure it out.

His knees were dangerously close to collapsing underneath him as he shuffled slowly toward the bed, practically falling onto the tangle of sheets and blankets in the middle of the mattress before letting out a long exhale and sinking into the blessed relief of sleep.

***

Lying on the floor of the guest bathroom, staring up at the ceiling, Patrick tried to catch his breath. He wished he would have thought to grab a blanket, but there hadn’t exactly been time to think about _anything_ he might want, unless he wanted to run the risk of not making it to the bathroom in time. He had made it, but barely. And now he felt terrible for teasing his husband -- blaming his illness on the discarded slice of cake he’d snatched up out of the trash can. Apparently the culprit wasn’t the cake, since Patrick hadn’t had any. Maybe it was Ray’s finger sandwiches after all.

Not that it mattered. What was done had been done, and nearly every small business owner in the county was probably down with this thing… whatever it was. Presuming it was food poisoning, and not something they’d picked up from a customer at the store.

Patrick had only had food poisoning once before in his life, from eating some bad chicken in the dining hall at university, and although he’d had his fair share of the stomach flu in grade school, none of that even held a candle to how sick he’d been for those couple of days in his dorm room. He’d hardly been able to make it across the room to grab the trash can, and going down the hall to the shared bathroom had felt like some strange and unusual form of torture.

This felt more like that, unfortunately.

Groaning as another wave of cramps made its way through his gut, Patrick let his eyes close, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was sweating like he’d just finished an 11-inning baseball game on a hot summer day, only his teeth were chattering and his arms were covered in goosebumps. And every time he tried to sit up, he got so dizzy that he had to lie back down immediately.

He wanted some water, and a blanket, and to be quite honest, he wanted David. But David was probably still in the master bath, in a similar state. So, simply put, they were both fucked, and unless they could somehow convince Stevie to come over and help them, they’d stay that way until one of them recovered enough to at least get up off the bathroom floor.

For a brief moment, he considered calling his mother, but she was several hours away, and that was assuming that she’d be able to get on the road immediately -- which wasn’t likely. So by the time she could get there, they’d both probably be fine. At least, Patrick hoped that was the case. And in the meantime, he had to find the wherewithal to get himself some water before he ended up dehydrated.

With a grunt, Patrick gathered up all the energy he could before attempting to push himself up to a seated position. Once the room had stopped spinning, he did the same to push himself up to his feet, where he stood shakily for several seconds, trying to get his bearings and evaluate whether or not he’d be able to make it downstairs without falling.

Tracing one hand along the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bathroom and down the hallway, past the open door to their bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see David’s bare feet sticking out over the side of the mattress, but there was no time to stop and check on him; he had to get downstairs before his trembling legs gave out, and then he’d figure out what to do next.

After practically tripping down the last few stairs as his feet dragged behind him, Patrick collapsed onto the sofa, once again trying to catch his breath. This was much, much worse than trying to get to that damn bathroom back in university. Why had he let David pick a two-story house?

Once he’d recovered enough to be able to stand again, Patrick made his way to the kitchen on still-unsteady legs, leaning heavily on the counter as he pulled a glass down out of the cabinet and filled it up at the sink, since the sheer thought of walking to the fridge for filtered water was exhausting.

Keeping one hand on a stationary or semi-stationary object at all times, he stumbled toward the table, where he sank down into a chair, propping his elbows on the table and letting his head fall into his hands. He knew he’d have to go back upstairs eventually, if for no other reason than to make sure David was still alive, but it would have to wait. 

He folded his forearms on the surface of the table and brought his forehead to rest on them, letting his eyes close. Maybe if he just slept for a few minutes…

***

David woke with a start, finding himself lying at a diagonal across the queen-sized bed he typically shared with his husband, his feet hanging over the edge and his t-shirt clinging to his skin in a most unpleasant way. He was disoriented at first, before the memory of the previous several hours came flooding back, and how he’d spent most of it in the bathroom, oscillating back and forth between two different forms of very, very sick.

The morning sun was already creeping across the floor, its rays just touching the edge of the duvet on Patrick’s side of the bed, which was empty. How long had he been asleep? And where the hell was Patrick?

Rolling over onto his back, David let his head sink into the soft, down pillows he’d splurged on when they were buying linens for the house. Even though he hated the thought of whatever grossness was making his face feel sticky touching said pillows, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been more thankful for a luxury purchase than he was in that moment, with the way his head was pounding.

Headache aside, though, he did feel a tiny bit better; he wasn’t burning up anymore, and his stomach was no longer cramping. Maybe -- hopefully -- the worst was over… fingers crossed. He _had_ been in the bathroom a long time, even if only because he hadn’t had the energy to go back to bed.

Letting his eyes drift closed for a few seconds, David listened for signs of life elsewhere in the house -- something that might indicate where Patrick was and what he was doing. But he was met with nothing but quiet -- no washing machine, no soft murmur of TV news at the lowest possible volume, no dishes clinking against one another in the kitchen sink. Surely he wouldn’t have left David alone and gone to open the store by himself at... David rolled over just far enough to squint at the alarm clock... 7 a.m. And surely he wouldn’t have up and left altogether… no, that would be ridiculous. And very much not like Patrick. But it was also very unlike Patrick to not be there at David’s elbow, ready to do whatever he could to help, so something… something was off.

Slowly pushing himself up, David paused for a moment to make sure that the extreme vertigo he’d been experiencing when he’d fallen into bed had dissipated before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Standing was a different matter entirely, and it took several seconds for David to find his balance before he could even consider forward motion. When he did finally get moving, it was a slow shuffle toward the door and into the hallway, where he paused again to listen, and was met again with silence.

Maintaining a slow-but-steady pace, David made his way downstairs, taking the time to get both feet on each step before continuing on to the next, for the sake of safety if nothing else. He was leaning heavily on the banister because he didn’t have a choice -- whatever this was, it had sucked every last bit of strength out of him. But he was halfway there, so he had to keep going.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and leaned against the wall while he waited for his heart rate to return to normal and a sudden wave of dizziness to pass. Once he felt like he could open his eyes without ending up sick again, he looked around the living room, where one of the throw pillows from the sofa appeared to have been haphazardly tossed to the floor, and the afghan Marcy had knitted them for Christmas was missing, but Patrick was still nowhere to be found. David moved from the wall to the armchair to the side table -- slowly heading toward the kitchen with the support of anything he could find along the way.

He was almost there when he heard a low moan coming from the direction of the half-bath next to the utility room, in the hallway that led to the garage. And when he got there, he found Patrick curled up on his side on the bathroom rug, under the afghan.

***

“Honey?”

The sound of David’s voice -- or at least, he thought it was David’s voice -- brought Patrick back from the delirious fever dream he’d been caught up in. His heart was still pounding, and he was sweating like he’d actually been running from the weird swamp monster that had emerged from the creek next to the trail he liked to hike on his mornings off. Then, yet another cramp pulsed through his abdomen, and he remembered why he was sleeping on the bathroom floor.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, waiting for them to focus. David was kneeling next to him, looking every bit as rough as Patrick felt, though his dark brows were furrowed in concern.

A part of him expected David to issue an indignant retort about it not being the cake after all, but he didn’t -- he simply nodded as he repositioned himself, leaning back against the vanity in their tiny downstairs half-bath.

“Should we blame Ray?” Patrick croaked, drawing a tiny, rueful smile out of David.

“Maybe.”

Patrick sighed, letting his eyes slide shut again. “I really wish I’d thought to buy some more gatorade at Brebner’s, but I didn’t think I’d need it, since it’s not baseball season anymore. And we ate all the crackers the other night.”

“I can text Stevie,” David mumbled, sounding half asleep himself.

Patrick snorted. “Do you think she’ll come?”

“She will if I offer her enough wine.”

Patrick opened his eyes as David was sliding his phone out of the pocket of his sleep joggers, then watched as he tapped out a message. There was a lot of back and forth, and a lot of eye-rolling and exasperated sighing on David’s part before he finally set the phone aside.

“She’ll be here in about an hour,” David said, tipping his head back against the cabinet.

“How much wine did you have to promise her?”

“A case.”

“Seems like a steep fee for some gatorade and saltines.”

“Fuck, I forgot the crackers.”

David picked up his phone and tapped out another message, then waited several seconds for a response before letting out a sigh of his own. “Make that two cases.”

***

Stevie stood in the checkout line at Brebner’s, a box of saltines and several bottles of gatorade in her arms. She was sure she was going to regret agreeing to this, but she couldn’t say no to David -- particularly not with the pitiful selfie he’d sent her. He’d sworn that whatever they had wasn’t contagious, but she’d still threatened him with bodily harm should she actually come down with something after dropping the stuff off.

Robin checked her out with the same lack of enthusiasm as always, right down to the monotone, semi-sarcastic “have a nice day” as she handed over the receipt. She liked Robin. Robin was Stevie’s kind of customer service professional. No niceties required, just do the job and be done with it.

Fifteen minutes later, she was in David and Patrick’s driveway, pulling on her ski mask -- the only form of mouth-and-nose protection she’d had on-hand in her apartment. No way in hell was she going in there bare-faced if there was even a shred of a chance that whatever they had might be catching.

She’d already had to promise David she would actually bring the bag to him and not just leave it on the porch -- that was the request that had driven the cost from six bottles of wine up to twelve. And then the saltines had doubled it again, just because Stevie felt like pushing. Patrick must have been feeling really bad if he’d agreed to _that_. Assuming David had asked him, of course. So, inside it was, and she’d have to hope that the ski mask would be better than nothing.

Stevie let herself in with the spare key they kept in the fake rock in the shrubbery and stepped into the house, hoping she wouldn’t have to go too far or stay very long. The living room, however, was empty, and she was about to go upstairs when she heard a soft snore coming from the vicinity of the kitchen. She glanced in there, halfway expecting to find David face-planted on the kitchen table, but no one was in there either. The next door was the downstairs bathroom, and that was where she found them -- Patrick sound asleep on the rug in front of the toilet, his legs tangled with David’s, who was leaning against the cabinet, his mouth open and a tiny trail of spittle making its way down his chin.

She was in the process of trying to get her phone out as quietly as possible -- because she _needed_ this picture for later blackmail purposes -- when the sudden sound of David’s voice made her jump.

“Okay, so are you here to help us, or rob us?”

“Just because I agreed to bring you this doesn’t mean I want whatever you have.”

“I told you, it’s food poisoning; it’s not contagious.”

“You don’t know that. Anyway, here’s your stuff. Where are your keys to the store? I’ll be taking my payment on the way home.”

“Fuck,” Patrick groaned from his position on the floor. “The store. Can you put a sign in the window while you’re there? Don’t think we’re making it in today.”

“Sure, if you’ll throw in an extra bottle of--”

“No more wine,” David cut her off. “I’ve already agreed to give you _more_ than enough.”

“Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures,” Stevie countered. A tiny part of her really did feel bad for David and Patrick, though, and that kept her from asking for some brie to go with the wine. “Where’d you guys get food poisoning anyway?”

“The Elm County small business association meeting,” Patrick mumbled. “We think.”

“See? This is why networking is dangerous.” Stevie set the bag down at her feet, then pushed it in David’s general direction with the toe of her shoe. “Anyhow, where are those keys?”

“On the hook by the back door,” David muttered. “And don’t even think about taking the brie.”

***

“We should probably drink some of that.”

Patrick kept his eyes closed, still lying supine on the bathroom rug, well aware that his intentions and his ability to carry them out were not at all in alignment. His arms and legs felt heavy, and even though he felt like his most immediate needs for the actual bathroom had passed, even thinking about getting up off the floor was exhausting.

“Mmm… that’s assuming I feel like moving,” David said softly.

“Don’t want to get dehydrated.”

Patrick was so tired his words were all running together, and he was surprised David understood him, but he did hear a low hum in response, followed by an equally slurred, “Drinking in the bathroom… incorrect.”

“Think we can make it to the couch?” Patrick rubbed his eyes and looked over at David, who would no doubt be horrified at his current pallor if he caught a glance at his reflection in the mirror.

“We can try.”

They abandoned the grocery bag in the bathroom after deeming it too heavy to lift in their current collective state, instead choosing to each carry one bottle of gatorade into the living room. There, they both collapsed onto the sofa after a slow tandem shuffle across the living room floor that Patrick was sure looked something like a drunken three-legged race. But they did manage to get the bottles open and take a few sips -- now they just had to hope that those sips would stay where they belonged.

David curled himself into Patrick’s side, tugging the afghan over both of their bodies, and Patrick let out a contented sigh as he once again let himself drift into slumber.

After a few more hours of sleep -- and thankfully, no more digestive upheaval -- they both felt good enough to shuffle into the bathroom to retrieve their supplies, then into kitchen for crackers and more gatorade, this time out of nice glasses, like some sort of a sad date night.

Thankfully, the food and fluids seemed to give them a bit more stamina -- at least enough to make it upstairs and take shifts standing under the shower spray, making halfhearted attempts to help each other wash off the sweat and general sickness before changing into clean pajamas and falling into bed.

“So, no more finger sandwiches from Ray, huh?” Patrick said, as David took his usual place snuggled against his side.

“No more _anything_ from Ray. Actually, no more potlucks, period.”

“That’s a strong statement, coming from you.”

“Also, I can’t speak for what happened in the other two bathrooms, but we _will_ be cleansing this one with fire.” David barreled on, his usual matter-of-fact tone markedly more subdued but still very much there. “And we will also be burning these sheets.”

Patrick huffed out a laugh. Despite how terrible he still felt, he was grateful to hear even the tiniest hint of his husband’s usual sardonic, opinionated self peeking through. “Think we could try bleach first?”

“Mmm… unclear,” David breathed, his eyes already drifting shut.

“Go to sleep, David.” A fond smile played at the corners of Patrick’s lips as he looked down at his husband before letting his own eyes close, hoping for better luck -- and better health -- in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to blackandwhiteandrose for cheerleading and assuring me that I wasn't making it gross. ;)


End file.
